The Elder Scrolls: Yjorrik of Colovia
by PartyPat22
Summary: Once a mere peasant boy in the highlands; now a dragonslayer, vampire hunter, and hero of prophecy. Fate beckons him back to the land of his forefathers, where an ancient being hungers for the souls of mortals and dov alike, a madmer lusts for blood and forbidden knowledge, and others seek the death of all mankind. But the only threat that he truly fears, is fate itself.
1. Chapter 1: Premonition of Constantine

A black cloak fell over the field, a fearsome storm of unnatural fury that howled like the most vicious daedroth in all Oblivion. The officer led his centuria up a steep hill without a word, mud sloshing under their leather boots. Lightning illuminated the top of the hill for a brief moment, just long enough to give him pause. He raised his shield, and the men behind him acted in turn. Straining for a glimpse of what he had seen, he realized what it must be. His voice nearly trembled, so early in his martial career he was, but it came out with a commanding baritone. "Boreous! Illuminate the hilltop!"

A half-Nibenese man, bronze-faced and light-haired, ran to the front of the formation, clanking in the steel links of his hauberk. He stopped beside his commander, and raised a staff that bore a large, unwavering, open wooden eye at its apex. A blinding aurora burst forth from it, covering the hilltop in beams of blue, green, and red light. The splattering hail of rain began as shapes became visible ahead, interrupting the battlemage's rays with each step. "Form testudo!" the officer shouted over the wailing storm. The mage's light flew over the hilltop, shining down upon a writhing mass of moving bodies, otherwise unseen. The legionnaires hefted their shields together ahead and above themselves as well as their brothers-in-arms.

Flames splashed over their shields as the centurion and the battlemage backed into the formation, both wraith-green and the same red as the diamond pattern they impacted. The rain licked feebly at the wisps of mage-fire until the battlemage raised his staff high above the testudo. None of the other men of Cyrod could see it, but the wards he placed upon their shields sapped the flames somehow. The centurion saw his soldiers' defenses holding, and called for the rear to attack their craven aggressors. "Cast pila!" Javelins cut through the rain and flames, appearing to stop in mid-air before tumbling abruptly to the murky ground. The illuminated silhouettes were two spear lengths away when the order resounded from the front. "Second wave!" The men holding their shields and spathae kneeled briefly as crossbows launched over their heads with loud *thunks,* muffled under the uninviting sky's roar. The vanguard of the column saw blood gush out and mingle with the torrential rain, revealing wounded shapes that cried out just in front of them.

Their centurion needn't say a word. His spatha rose above his shield, and an uncharacteristically savage war-cry grew from a whisper to a rumbling of the ground as more joined him. The short charge uphill met with half-seen bodies, many of whom were maimed by bolts. Hot blood ran crimson over the leather, metal plates, and scale-mail of the legionnaires. Elven screams resounded clearly in their ears, drowning the few wails of their own wounded and dying. The unmistakable crack of their crystal armor was music to the officer's ears in his disciplined fury. A great swathe of flame glided headlong towards his men, only for their battlemage to send a pilum of solid ice back to its source. The bodies of bleeding and angry elves were revealed to their eyes then, golden-skinned and armored. With their dying mage's magicks dispelled, the elven formation was visible, and therefore far more vulnerable. Boreous' staff poured arcs of lightning down onto them then as he raised it high in both hands.

The cunning of elves was not spent yet, however. The wounded lit themselves ablaze with arcane flame and leapt wholeheartedly unto the Imperial Legion's young marching men, searing flesh and peeling it back from bone with their grasp. The crimson that pooled out on chests and shoulders did nothing to stop the burning; only the knife-ears' deaths gave any chance of respite. A crystalline spear sailed over a dying elf's shoulder and into the centurion's shield, reflex being his salvation. The amber eyes that met his gleamed with a malice beyond the intent to kill; the hunger for the death of Man shone behind a golden-helm. The moonstone-forged helmet offered no protection from the impact of a cast iron bolt upon an exposed face, nonetheless. The centurion dashed the length of the fallen spear in a mere moment, and pushed the dying elf backwards. The mer behind him fell under his comrade's weight, then shoved him off his chest with both hands, only to receive over a foot of steel through his tender face and into the pointed skull beneath. The centurion wiped his blade upon his greaves as he fell back, noticing a new man to his left, holding a bloody pilum. Elven corpses still outnumbered Human ones in both of the corners of his vision. The line held, and their battered ambushers began retreating slowly, with shields, spears, and swords of once-bright golden-bronze crystal rendered dull by the ever-present rain. The centurion cracked a rare grin then, and led the march of his shielded formation up the crest of the hill, pushing the Elves further back.

As he reached the summit, he couldn't help but gaze out over the battlefield. His small host's flanking maneuver had been intercepted, but the Legion fared well nonetheless. His centuria had landed from their ferry on an isolated southern beach of the isle. The bridge to the West that stretched out across the bay was heavily guarded, while the northern and eastern shores were well garrisoned as well. Unnaturally lit torches and magelight trapped in crystal orbs stretched around the edge of the bay's waters, illuminating the progress of any imperial forces looking to liberate their capital undeterred. Aldmeri Dominion troops were retreating back to the walls of their captured city or dying by the score, encircled by legionnaires.

Wood Elf archers held the walls, raining death upon the stray soldiers who foolishly approached. Their volleys were brief and cautious, however. It was just as the legate he answered to had predicted. The Dominion had underestimated the Legion, and their supply lines suffered for it. Wood Elves traded and pilfered for their munitions, only making their own from bone, stone, and sinew. An ancient custom bound them to this, and ensured that the province of Valenwood would only ever be able to defend themselves, lacking the material for assaults and sieges.

Khajiiti skirmishers from Anequina and Pellitine were called too late to reinforce the besieged High Elves, likely still marching from Leyawiin. Unlike the initial invasion, ape-like Imga and Goblin footsoldiers were nowhere to be seen. The Thalmor cared not for lesser races beyond their usefulness, and the captured Imperial City could prove to be the heart of a new empire of Elves, above the desecration of such unfit beast-folk. The Legion's own Nord reinforcements were on the horizon, loosing iron arrows from their longbows into the retreating Altmer infantry as they reached the shore of the isle.

The legionnaire to his left hurled his pilum down the hill into a bold elf attempting to set the grassy slope ablaze with unquenchable magick. It sunk through the target's throat just as the officer awoke from his appraisal of the situation, sending a crystalline helm tumbling off and launching the nearly beheaded knife-ear into the shields of his retreating fellows. Boreous let loose a gust of freezing air from the very eye of Magnus carved onto his staff. Half a dozen gold-skins froze in place at once, terror and rage etched on their faces. The attack finally sent the elves fleeing, running with abandon rather than slowly backing away behind their wall of winged shields. "Cast pila!" the call came, and the cowards fell bleeding into the mud in their haste.

The walls of the city still held, surrounded by High Elves rallying under the banner of the Third Aldmeri Dominion. Cavalry bore the standards, readying their footmer for one last charge. The sudden horns of the Mede Empire's royalty drew the attention of all those who still had ears with which to hear, and the centurion looked towards the bridge approach over the bay to see a welcome sight. A golden sword could be seen shining brightly through the downpour, even from the centurion's vantage point upon the hilltop. It seemed to glow as if commanding all to witness it, the dull sheen of the High Elves' equipment paling in comparison. The man wielding it was clad in ebon armor, painted true-gold in imitation of the blade he held high. Mighty steeds carried him, his standard bearers, and his charging lancers towards the walls' defenders, galloping faster than the centurion had ever witnessed. It could only be one man: Titus Mede the Second, the emperor himself. The entire Legion roared a preemptive cry of victory and glory then, sprinting at the gold-skinned occupiers with bloody spathae in hand.

The centurion felt an odd sense of dread as he charged ahead of his men, and watched the front of the emperor's column slam into the ill-prepared elvish defense. High atop the ramparts, he saw a tall archer clad in the unmistakable crystalline-white of adamantite armor, the favored protection of the Altmer's own royalty. The elf nocked an arrow headed by the same material, and let it fly into the chest of The Emperor in his golden plate. All this, the centurion saw with unnatural clarity. Titus fell off his stead and onto his back, unmoving and sinking into the muck.

The Legion's charge around him stopped dead in its tracks, and the Elven counterattack came soon after. Those behind the faltering lancers stood still, jaws agape and eyes painted onto their faces, unwavering in their surprise and disbelief. A healer ran to the wounded emperor's side, even as the High Elves' cavalry began to tear through the men around him. The centurion saw the dying emperor raise his hand towards the frantic healer, before they were overtaken by the pale gold mass of the elves.

The shock that came with the fate of their ruler spread across the battlefield, a sudden gale from the storm that sundered the spirits from men. He saw his countrymen impaled and mutilated on every flank, lightning and wicked green flames arcing out to cut down the empire's steadfast defenders. A barge full of Khajiit, vicious cat-men from the jungles of Pellitine, struck ground on the eastern shore. Victory had been in their grasp merely a moment before, yet now rallying seemed hopeless. A legionnaire with his blood-soaked pilum in hand shouted over the downpour, "What are your orders?" From behind and to the right, the battlemage reiterated, "What would you have us do, centurion?" He spotted the Legion's own reinforcements to the North fully entering the fray, nearly all footmen with axes. Those Nords fought on, emboldened by the tales of their ancestors and determined not to let glory slip from their grasps.

The centurion stared up at the High Elf that had struck his emperor down, and they met each other's gaze from half a league away. The shimmering adamant head of an arrow slowly grew within the officer's sight, as if time was not relevant. His brow was furrowed, features soaked with rain and revealing his hopelessness as the arrow filled his vision, passing through his mind's eye. . .

Tullius woke with a start, sweat covering his forehead and staining his bedsheets. His grey hair was soaked to the point of resembling the same dark shade it had been during the battle, so very long ago. He hadn't dreamed of the Great War in years, and never had he seen the emperor he served to this very day die on the battlefield. His mind focused immediately on the state of the Cyrodiilic Empire and its enemies. The Battle of the Red Ring had been the empire's salvation, forcing the Dominion to come to the negotiation table rather than continue the war. Though concessions were made, the empire was regaining strength far more quickly than the Thalmor's puppet regimes.

The general, as one of the informed elite of the empire, knew that Anequina, Pellitine, Valenwood, and the heart of the Dominion, Alinor, were arming young boys and even training Wood Elf girls as archers to makeup for their losses in the last conflict. The An-Xileel that rule Black Marsh remained cordial with the Elves, trading for arms and armor. Despite the empire's best efforts, few spies had managed to penetrate the lands of their gold-skinned nemeses. The mer on the other hand, had free reign to travel all three of the provinces firmly under imperial control with their justiciars to stamp out the worship of Talos. Legion training exercises often took place in secluded forests due to the risk of prying eyes. Orsinium's royalty had an arrangement with the Mede dynasty ensuring their defense against hostile neighbors, and the ferocity of their berserkers had granted an advantage to the Legion in open battles. Breton spellswords, mages, and knights were counted amongst the auxiliaries, as were Nibenese battlemages, Nord axemen, and Colovian knights. Seven replenished Legions trained and patrolled in Cyrodiil, with another two in High Rock.

In the years following The Battle of the Red Ring, Tullius had risen to the rank of general, and was appointed to end the rebellion in Skyrim himself. Ever cautious, the emperor and his elder council had decided that the conflict did not require detracting from the main garrisons throughout the South of Cyrodiil in Colovia and Nibenay, and so Tullius was forced to recruit from the locals and lead a small group of volunteers. Many of the lesser nobility had died in the Great War, and of those that remained, few had wished to fight in the Legion or as auxiliaries. Thus his Legion had no tribunes, and he was forced to use legates and promoted centurions to fill the role of intermediate unit commanders. His most trusted legates were Rikke, a half-Nord, half-Colovian veteran of the Great War, and Fasendil, a High Elf refugee from the Thalmor's pogroms that had served in the Legion longer than anyone else he knew.

The old soldier rose from his bed, pushing off of the layers of bundled cloth with his fists, and walked the few steps to the simple wash basin in his quarters. He dipped his hands in the mixture of soap, alcohol, and water, splashing it on his face and slathering it under his arms. Of Colovian and Nibenese descent, he had the complexion of the average man from Cyrodiil, lightly tanned yet fair featured. His quarters in Castle Dour held only his padded bed, his saddle, his spatha in its scabbard hanging by a bolt on the nearest wall, his shield, a brazier, the basin, a chest for his belongings, and a sturdy desk. Within were parchments, ink, quills, a letter knife, wax, and the seal of a general of the Imperial Legion. The curtain-less window of his chamber faced out to the North of Solitude, revealing distant glaciers on the horizon shining in the orange glow of the rising sun. A letter on his desk caught his eye, its seal belonging to the Penitus Oculatus, the spies and guards of the emperor since the Great War had taken its toll on the old order of The Blades. No one had entered his chambers as he slept, and thus he realized that it must have been dropped off the night before by his personal optio. He picked it up with due haste, cutting it open with his pen knife carefully, yet urgently.

 _"To Governor-General Constantine Scipio Tullius_

 _From the Office of the Penitus Oculatus, Acting Praefectus Valentius Octavian Crassus_

 _Fifth of Second Seed_

 _As you may have heard, His Majesty did not arrive in Nibenay according to schedule after his journey to Solitude two months ago for the funeral of Vittoria Vicci. Around the Eighth of Rain's Hand, the Katariah was spotted aground between Farrun and Jehenna. Fishermen reported the shipwreck to the local city guards, who investigated and reported this to our nearest office in Shornhelm. Upon further investigation, His Majesty Titus Mede, the second of his name, was found dead in his cabin. The wounds inflicted came from an oddly curved dagger's blade, not unlike the weapons crafted by the Orcs of Wrothgar. All other souls aboard were accounted for, killed in the same manner. In addition, a man in sailor's garb but unrecognized on the crew's ledger was amongst them, knife in hand at the time of death. The investigation does not point to Orcs being the assailants, as there were very few signs of struggle and an overwhelming majority of the treasures onboard were left behind. In light of Praefectus Oculatus Maro's disappearance, we now believe that he was murdered as well, and that this occurred around the time of the emperor's death. The Elder Council have been briefed privately on the murder, as have all relations to the Imperial Family. High Chancellor Caro has recalled the legatus of each legion in Cyrodiil and High Rock to pay their respects. Due to the nature of the conflict in your province, you and your officers are not being recalled at this time. The death of the emperor should not be confirmed if mentioned in rumor, and should especially be denied in the presence of Altmer diplomats and justiciars. Public knowledge should still be extremely minimal. An agent has been dispatched outside of Thalmor oversight, who will rendezvous with you at Castle Dour within a month's time. The agent will give you their orders and place themselves under your command upon arrival."_

The news shocked Tullius nearly as much as the arrival of the black Dragon, Alduin, nearly two years ago. If the Thalmor were behind Titus' death, it would mean an invasion within the next few months, likely after the news had spread and cemented doubt in the minds of the aristocracy about the fate of the empire. The Redguards and An-Xileel had no motivations for murdering the emperor, nor did the craven "pacifists" amongst the Elder Council. Some amongst the war hawks, the "neo-Alessians", and the most devout Talos worshippers may have wished to see a more aggressive emperor sit the throne.

Ulfric would never order an assassination, as highly as he held his honor as a Nord. The Jarls under him were a mixed lot: Korir kept true to traditions, and lacked the wealth for such a costly endeavor; Laila "Law-Giver" was only caught up in the conflict due to the will of her subjects; and Skald the Elder, the cantankerous old fool, wished to gain glory through war for his hold and his name. Whomever had him killed was likely behind the foiled plot that pitted the Dark Brotherhood against the Penitus Oculatus those months prior, resulting in the death of his majesty's cousin and one of his body doubles. The infamous cutthroats had been tracked down to their hidden cave in Falkreath Hold and put to the sword afterward, though it was of little solace to the Imperial Family.

Titus Mede II had met with him in that very castle mere months ago when he came in secret via one of his smaller personal ships. His cousin, Vittoria Vicci, had been murdered during her wedding to Asgeir Snow-Shod. The alliance between the owner of the East Empire Company and a prominent family of Stormcloak supporters would have gone far in cementing peace in the province, as the nearly year old cease-fire agreement was barely holding. They had discussed the ongoing Stormcloak problem, the empire's relationship with Morrowind and Hammerfell, the growing polarization amongst his elder council, and the topic that was on everyone's tongue in hushed whispers, the next inevitable war with the Aldmeri Dominion.

His majesty was survived by two sons, three daughters, four matrilineal grandsons, two matrilineal granddaughters, a patrilineal grandson and granddaughter, and a maternal aunt. The eldest son, Tiberius, held a reputation as a firebrand. Several times had he put down bandits and minor revolts via wholesale slaughter, or solved disputes between nobles via duels. The disgraced Argonian Archeins, House Hlaalu Dark Elves, and noble families of Leyawiin filled his mind with thoughts of expansionary campaigns in the South and East, while the Motierre family of High Rock grew closer to him with every season. Rumors of marriage pacts and naval expansion had reached the late Titus' ears, and the prior had concerned him enough to warrant discussion with Tullius during their last meeting.

The Motierres had always been powerful, but with the sacking of Wayrest by Corsairs and the devastation of Nibenay during the war, only the Mede family themselves held more power now. "Schemers all, with no regard for the lives of those beneath them." The phrase rattled around Tullius' head as if Titus II had just spoken them. Tiberius' first wife had died several years ago, leaving him with two children, both of which were prone to sickness and feeble of constitution. Tullius would rather not think ill of the dead, or his betters, but the woman likely suffered from the inbreeding so common among the depleted noble families, and her children for it.

Titus' younger son of seventeen years, Boris, had inherited Titus' sound mind as a scholar, though he was also capable in the political arena of the aristocracy. His bookish ways and intellectual concerns were oft blamed for his lack of children. The brothers were not distant, nor were they close, born many years apart. A brother born between them, Nero Licinius, had come of age and died the same year, succumbing to a whoresbane, much to the Mede family's embarrassment. Of Titus' three daughters, Tullius knew little. All three had been asked for by the Motierre family, and all three had been refused. The families to which grandsons had been born could not be presumed free of guilt either however, as each had a chance at power through proxy

Regardless of who had murdered the emperor, Tullius realized that the conflict in Skyrim had to be fully resolved soon, whether it be through peace or by sacking Windhelm. Civil war, invasion, or a pre-emptive strike that the empire simply wasn't ready for... All three possibilities raced through his mind.

The general put down the letter with a look of determination that furrowed his brows and shone in his eyes, then donned his lorica segmentata one leather strap at a time, marked with symbols of status to denote his authority. He lit a small fire in the chamber's brazier with two flints and a handful of coals, before placing the letter inside. As he walked out of his chambers, he used a small, unadorned key to lock the heavy iron bolts affixed to the solid pine door, studded and reinforced with steel bars. The stone steps of Castle Dour led him to the war room, with a map of Skyrim's roads, settlements, topography, defensive points, and waterways displayed atop its main table. His legate, Rikke, was already standing at the opposite corner, jotting down information on a roll of parchment. She wore the partial plate afforded to front-line troops and officers of the Legion, even withinin the safety of the keep that dominated the center of the city. It was a subtle reminder of how far the empire had fallen since the days of the Septim Dynasty, when the throne could afford to furnish troops with newtscale or plate armor and full-length arming swords in the Colovian style, rather than the leathers and short spathae they relied upon now.

The half-Colovian Nord raised her head abruptly, giving a professional nod as a greeting. "General. Is something troubling you this morning?"

He shook his head and replied, "Just dreams about the war. How are you faring, legate?" He met her cerulean gaze with his own aged grey-blue eyes.

"I'm worried about the flow of supplies through The Reach. The Forsworn rarely attack convoys guarded by legionnaires, but we have too few men to guard every merchant caravan that leaves High Rock."

Tullius nearly smirked, the slightest curve evident at the corner of his lips. "Always focused on the task at hand. That's why you'll be commanding the campaign that topples the Thalmor in a few years."

Rikke's eyes grew wide at that, and she all but whispered while looking around at the exits of the room, "General?! Their representatives are still in the city!"

"Oh I know, but it's too early for them to be up attending to their functions. They have to sleep in till noon in their posh castle suites on the empire's septims to live so long, don't you know?"

"Aye sir." Rikke passed him a stack of parchment sheets, scrolls, and goat hide-bindings across the rectangular table. The general shuffled through notes on logistics, casualties, and troop movements. "What's the situation at the trenches, legate?"

Rikke glanced down at the map, taking in the wooden markers denoting the many positions of deep, spiked pits in the waterways, alchemist's fire traps, and light siege artillery emplacements arranged about the impassable, strategic crossroads of the swamps. "More have died in Hjaalmarch from sickness. Thankfully, it isn't a plague since it hasn't spread any further, but sanitation efforts haven't helped. There have been disappearances also, and a legionnaire was discovered that had drowned in the muck, weighed down by his armor. The Dawnguard seem interested in the area, but they haven't volunteered why."

With keen eyes she followed the meandering line of shallow trenches, ancient stone keeps, bear-trapped forests, and wooden hill-forts that stretched from the peaks of The Pale's mountains, along the edges of Whiterun Hold, and curved in and out of the eastern marshes of the Hjaal River Delta until it reached the northern shores of the province. "A few organized raids behind the lines in The Pale, Falkreath, and around the edges of the swamps have been reported since Tirdas. None were particularly damaging, but at this point I don't think we're dealing with any actual highwaymen. Ingvarsson likely dealt with enough brigands and deserters to make them think twice about banditry as a profession."

"And what of this 'Dragonborn'? Any sightings?"

Rikke cleared her throat and faced the general. "None yet, not for the last few months. I know you're skeptical, but he's proven himself to be Dovahkiin many times now. Our Legion has felled one dragon and driven off four. The Stormcloaks claim to have slain three, though I doubt they've managed any at all. Nearly every other drake's corpse found in the province has had his handiwork all over it, and more witnesses than we can reasonably discredit."

Tullius scoffed, "You Nords and your tall tales. I won't deny that this man those mountain hermits are calling 'Ysmir' is a great warrior, with a keen mind as well. That doesn't make him 'Dragonborn.' Saint Alessia. Tal-, Tiber Septim. Martin Septim. Those were Dragonborn. Those were the men who possessed 'the soul of a Dragon.' I have yet to see him strike down one of the beasts, and he still hasn't delivered on his oath to slay Alduin. Until either of those happen, he's simply a gifted fighter with a bit of old Nord magick to me."

"There have been far fewer attacks from 'the beasts' over the last few months. Perhaps he has slain the World-Eater already, and simply does not want to end the cease-fire?"

"Perhaps... It would certainly be a wise choice on his part, if peace is indeed his goal."

"When he does come forward with its head, I would advise that we focus on recruiting him as an auxiliary. He could face Ulfric alone and likely triumph."

"If he slays the winged lizard, I'll agree with you. As it stands, he is thane of nine different holds, four of which are in open rebellion. His loyalties are hard to discern, if he has any at all."

Rikke and Tullius reviewed battle-plans, contingencies and possible weak-points in the Stormcloaks' defenses for the next few minutes. After a time, Tullius cut to the chase. "Today's the twenty-second, isn't it?"

"Aye, two days till the anniversary of the cease-fire."

"We'll be breaching the agreement soon."

"General?"

A knot of trepidation formed in his stomach as he phrased what he had to say. "Cyrodiil needs the conflict resolved as quickly as possible. . . I plan on pushing to Windhelm before Ulfric knows he's being pressed. Keep it under your helm. The centurions will be informed when the offensive is prepared."

"We don't have the men to take Windhelm without leaving half the province open to attack."

"At the moment, no. I'll be writing a letter to Orsinium today proposing that we pay their berserkers a quarter of their weight in silver to help end this rebellion."

"A horde of Orcs won't bode well for the people of Skyrim."

"We have enough resources to give them all imperial colors. There are likely to be a decent amount of ex-legionnaires among them, so discipline shouldn't be an issue so long as we incorporate them as auxiliaries to our cohorts."

The legate raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you'll tax the Silver-Blood family's mines to cover the costs?"

Tullius leaned onto the map room table with both of his tanned, gnarled, bony fists and scanned the approximate locations of rebel encampments as reported by the scouts. "Everyone knows where their loyalties lie. Besides, those Stormcloak sympathizers have enough issues with the Reachmen. They won't dare to rebel against the empire without Ulfric to rally under, just as they haven't done so with a loyal jarl keeping his eye on them."

"Very well then, general."

"Has there been any news from Whiterun?"

She shifted in her partial plate armor, clanking and jangling while crossing her arms and making her way around the table to stand closer to the middle of the provincial map. "None since we fortified the edges of the hold. Balgruuf still hasn't acknowledged our right to march through his lands. Even the buildup of Stormcloaks before the cease-fire made no difference as you recall. Our supporters in the court claim that uniformed skirmishers are all chased off or captured and held at Dragonsreach. He's been reluctant to execute anyone from either side, but those without uniform or documentation are hung outside the gates as bandits. We haven't received any letters of ransom for our men, but I doubt harm will come to them unless The Stonefist convinces Ulfric to besiege the city."

Tullius stared vacantly at no particular spot on the map for a few moments before he replied. "I see. . . " An idea formed, one so unconventional that he hesitated to share it. "We can't pass through the White River Valley without sustaining heavy losses from long-bowmen. If the infantry circle around The Throat of the World, it will extend the march by a week or more, and scouts will spot them far before we can be anywhere near close enough for any advantage. That leaves a frontal assault that we may break our army's spear upon. . . or . . . "

"Or what?"

"The ruins. The ancient Dwemer ruins. The traps and automata are daunting, but an entire army could travel undetected under the mountains. Ulfric's men would be outnumbered and likely unable to rally. Our Orcs can be deployed to harass Ulfric's frontline, or accompany the legionnaires through the passageways. We may even find enough treasure hidden in the depths to pay the Orcs without any tribute from the Nords. If there is a better way, I would like to hear it, legate. No matter what plan we devise, an expedient end to the standoff won't come without risks."

Rikke said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes more than her silence. Incredulousness furrowed her brows and reached her azure eyes below. Finally, one of the seeds of her doubt sprouted into a cautious question. "What of the Falmer?"

"Ha! The Falmer?! You Nords love your tall tales almost as much as your mead. Has a Falmer corpse ever been brought forth and paraded by some braggart through the streets?"

"No. . . But too many stories have been told to be purely superstition."

"If we do encounter some lost elves, we'll trade with them, or put them to the sword if they attempt to impede us. Either way, if they're in hiding, they can't be a significant threat. Otherwise, they would have sought vengeance on Skyrim long ago."

No further concerns or unseen alternatives arose, and Tullius hammered out the plan in his mind, molding it before he would present it to his aide and advisor, sharpening it with her own ideas. A pivotal figure came to mind, and he broke the silence of contemplation. "Have my optio called for. I'll be drafting a letter to Calcelmo of Markarth as well. His knowledge of Dwemer ruins will be vital to the offensive."


	2. Chapter 2: On the Tides of Fate

A shadow passed over the summit, the very pinnacle of the world, displacing the light of the twin moons. A hundred wings and more moved restlessly beneath it. A great drake of golden-bronze scales raised his neck, a bridge of faintly gleaming gemstones in the restored light of Masser and Secunda. Ever so slowly he rose to meet the presence, like the ridge of a great sea beast rolling atop the crest of a wave. A black mass of immaterium slowly solidified as it glided down upon two great wings, landing near silently in a solid blanket of snow. It spoke to the bronze drake in the ancient tongue of dragonkind.

"Alduin dir?" ("Did Alduin die?")

Paarthurnax replied in deep, gravelly breaths through his gizzard with the common tongue of mortals. "Alduin los no more. Dir by a joor, with soul of dov. Dovahkiin."

"Hi rel un fron nu?" ("You rule our kind now?")

"I teach them. . . Onikiv, the Way of the Voice. How did you escape?"

"Mun nis rel zu'u. Alduin dein zu'u ahst vaal." ("Man cannot imprison me. Alduin kept me at bay.")

"Men rel themselves now. We are not their gods."

"Hi los sahlo! Zu'u fen rel niin! Hi fen aam uv kos diilon!" ("You are weak! I will rule them! You will serve or be devoured!")

"Men will not aam, serve you, of all our fron. Have you forgotten the atrocities of your servant Otar?"

"Zu'u ni vodahmaan, nuz vahrukt se jul los maltiid. Niin mindoraan mal. Osos aal dahmaan, nuz ni fen krif vothni al." ("I have not, but the memory of man is fleeting. Their knowledge miniscule. Even if some recall, they cannot hope to resist without destruction.")

The eldest of dragons watched as the once imprisoned shadow spread its wings and soared into the clouds filling the milky sky. More strife was to come; of that, the wise son of Akatosh knew. He watched helplessly as a pair of wings, three pairs, ten, twenty and more, came alive, unfurled, and ascended on the air to follow the usurper. He could challenge him, but would he not lose all he had gained through the Way of the Voice? Overcoming his nature had taken millennia; to take hold of the reins of power now and reject his peaceful ways would invalidate his entire existence. His strength was in restraint, the most uncommon attribute of his kind. Remaining steadfast would be his victory, and guide his brethren to a better purpose. The fading shadows in the distance had chosen their ends.

* * *

Red eyes gleamed in the indiscernible darkness. The clanking of chains heralded a grinding array of gears, giving way to a vast stone slab opening into another chamber of unnatural dimness and near silence. Silence, except for the faint whimpering from the far wall of the room. A mischievous grin crossed the lips of the Dunmer standing in the entranceway, and the lone man, chained and manacled to the stones, gave into his mounting fright, screaming, unable to see his tormentor.

The screams grew higher. Blood gushed forth, staining flesh, iron, stone, and dyed leathers. The Dark Elf savored the rush of it; the previous interrogative acts were merely a prelude, a sadistic foreplay for the one who had drawn the blood of a ruler months earlier, a lord of so many men and so vast a fiefdom. Those crimson irises narrowed as a curved, accursed blade tore free of the fresh corpse. There would be more to come. A thousand. A score of thousands. There were many lifetimes to be had, after all.

* * *

A rasping at the door awoke the slender form of Elenwen, First Emissary of the Thalmor to the Imperial Province of Skyrim, from her slumber. Her mind raced and her mood instantly soured as she was cast out of her fantasy of lavish towers, grand balls, and tailored finery interwoven with dazzling jewels. Dreams of the material were not looked upon in a positive light by her people, least of all her regime, despite their penchant for having and displaying wealth. She lifted the silken sheets with carefully pinched fingers and lithely slipped into cotton inlaid slippers before reaching the door. One hand's fingers swept over the handle; the other gripped a delicately thin, crystalline knife of pale-green glass.

A gaunt Bosmer, an ever-hungry, barbaric peon awaited her, with a sealed letter clutched in his grubby paws. Quickly enough to avoid a beating, he averted his gaze to the hallway, away from the amber eyes inset into the pallor of her visage and the rest of her tall, looming body, and wisely so, as her nightgown left little to the imagination. To ogle her would mean death, unless she was feeling particularly kind, in which case she might be so inclined as to mercifully have him turned out into the frigid night with nothing but shoes and breeches. Even in Summer, the northern coastline of Skyrim was unbearably cold and smothered in ice and snow.

The timid wretch remembered himself and lifted the envelope up for her; she accepted it, ever so coldly, and awaited his understanding of the dismissal. He slowly backed away, and walked off without meeting her gaze. She turned on her warmly padded heels in a single movement and closed the door with a fingertip.

To the fireplace she strode, cutting the silken stitching on the Thalmor missive open and peering inside. To her surprise, it wasn't a simple notice of who would be replacing a dead justiciar in the province. The parchment held a simple message in its Aldmeris calligraphy, a product of the Thalmor's efforts to restore proper society in Alinor, ridding all documents of the mildly degenerated dialect that was Altmeris. The emperor of mankind's pitiful, fractious lands was dead. The unexpected news had brought her normally stoic features to surprise, her eyebrows rising in tandem towards her widow's peak, casting her sunken cheeks in even more shadow. News like this was far too important to be handled by simple couriers, with the obvious risk of it falling into the wrong hands. Perhaps that was the very reason why it was deigned to be written rather than sent to her via memosphere.

Men, whom the ignorant and the intellectually dishonest among the old Mages' Guild once labelled as the equals to Mer. Nevermind the arbitrary grouping of "black souls," as if every race that could carve out territory through conquest was somehow spiritually noble, comparable to Elves by merit of merely being superior to common animals. The value of a Man's soul was measurably less than a Mer's, as proven by any dedicated mage operating without patronage from the old, dead Septim Dynasty's institutions.

As their First Emissary to the region, she would know if her own order had taken part in it. Would she not? Perhaps she was not privy after all. . . Only in a passing moment of conversation between unaware sapiarchs did she ever hear of the overall purpose of their efforts against the short-lived apes of mainland Tamriel. "We face nothing short of victory, ascension, and reconstitution, or failure and annihilation." She who had been born of the highest breeding, studied with the best tutors, served most loyally and with the greatest ambition. Still she was below the inner circle; still she was kept in the dark about the plans and goals of the utmost importance. Her face nearly showed her anger, her bitter thoughts as she pondered, but in the end it did not, not once, as she stood before the mantle, alone in her chambers. She calmed herself with a single intake of breath, and a naive, reassuring thought. "I am vital to our efforts. They would tell me. They would have given me the duty of making it so. I would have commanded his death to a servant. A servant sent to me from the Isles or the Wood, to carry out my orders without question. It was not the doing of the Dominion."

Once more content, her mind carried her to the possible culprits: Nord, Nibenese, Breton, Redguard, Daedra. . . No. Not a chance. Nord. Nibenese. Breton. Dunmer. . . Dunmer? There were possibilities there. As she paced over to her accommodating mattress, she pondered that last, passing thought. The knife found its place in the sheath hanging from the bed post below and next to her downy pillow. An ash-skinned heretic. . . Morag Tong. Hlaalu. Dres. An immigrant to the Nords' wasteland of a home? All were possible. But likely? . . . Breton, Colovian, Nibenese. Ruthlessly ambitious heirs. The Neo-Allessians on the Elder Council, or some cult devoted to the worship of the mortal Tiber Septim.

A Redguard couldn't get close enough. As far as she knew, the An-Xileel hadn't bought any more of the Dominion's arms as of late, so there was little chance of an invasion of the Mede Empire from Black Marsh. There were plenty of Imperials in the Thalmor's pockets, and even more Bretons. A few Redguard turncloaks had been ratlined to Cyrodiil after the end of the spillover war. Perhaps some loyalist Jarl or Thane had realized how weak the empire truly was, or a Stormcloak noble had grown tired of seeing their kinsmen's deaths. In the end, it was unknowable. If her superiors had been involved, she would know. If not, the culprits would be seizing power soon enough.

Another civil war might erupt in the heart of men's vulnerable facsimile of an empire. She indulged the thought for long moments, savoring its implications. If the conflict grew fierce enough, she would finally be recalled to Alinor, to be lavished with honors and treated as a goddess by churlish slave-races. Envious Imga, marching about in mock-finery in imitation of their masters. Perhaps the children of those taken prisoner in the war against man, now at a ripe age for labor. The goblins and ogres she would go without. The stench of the prior lesser-beings would be enough to endure, the price to be paid when dealing with such loathsome commoners.

As for what nation she would become envoy to in the future, she couldn't begin to say. The five late powers of High Rock had fractured into over a dozen, perhaps even a score of realms. Black Marsh's ambassador was doing well enough at his post to forbid the thought of replacement. A foray to Morrowind to gain the favor of the Great Houses might be in-store, but surely her exemplary service thus far would merit endeavors of a more fruitful nature. Her mind turned to the sky, to the glinting tapestry of stars, and then back to the present. The hour was still late, and the matter of a dead emperor was out of her hands. She stalked over to the warm, inviting hearth and flicked the letter into the glowing pit, watching it crumple and blacken.

On the morrow, after a breakfast of jazbay grape jam and roasted, honeyed elk flank, she would attend to her functions. The clandestine hiring through innumerable proxies of more "bandits" to harass both sides' armistice lines. Appointing guards to accompany Muril in his investigation of Winterhold and the disappearance of Ancano. Tracking down the accursed, sniveling Bosmer that had betrayed the Thalmor, betrayed her, to assist that daedra-spawn of a peacemaker, the "Aka-born."

Her inferiors' failures, and therefore her own, never fully reached the forefront of her mind that night. The implications of prisoners escaping Northwatch Keep, the deaths of the Third Emissary, the agent sent to the Nords' "College," and the many justiciars, as well as the damnable year-long "peace" in the province, all remained locked away behind the unbreachable adamantite wall of her pride. The future she foresaw as she lay down to rest once more, was one of opulence and wholly deserved prestige.

* * *

A pale, sickly hand clutched the handle of a ladle. . . A ladle carved from human bone. The stone-walled chamber stunk of rot, sweat, and long-soiled layers on a decrepit body. Clouds of stinging, amorphous vapors hung in the air, forming fleetingly into images of dead men, dying women, and diseased children. Blonde hairs fell like stalks of wheat away from heads cleaved open. Savage war-cries never resounded in the cave; only in the mind of the one gazing intently at the mist's half-formed depictions of warriors gripping axes, blood-dripping in thick rivulets off the blades.

Men killing men. Foolish peons culling the despicable, the merciless, the repugnantly proud. The downtrodden would have their vengeance. The valleys would overflow with the dead. A delightful, magnificent catastrophe. Foreign gods would be removed from the land, along with the tongues that uttered their names. The haze dissipated. More kindling was needed for the cookfire. More sprigs and twiggy bones.

* * *

An ethereal form, a long forgotten being, dwelt in the eternal darkness. It had no need of fires; it possessed no desire for warmth, light, or even companionship. Blinded orbs had remained so long after sight lost its meaning. Plots were advancing within the core of its being, adjusting to uncontrollable changes and factors. Unknowable millennia of waiting, learning, attaining godlike status through whispers on the dry air into the minds of superstitious wisened ones. All from the heart of the dark, the blackest depths.

Higher tribes had been massacred, brought low, but it was not all for nought; it granted the survivors newfound purpose among the congregations of devotees. The ancient wrongs would be righted. Revenge would finally be at hand, cold and unforgiving. Sounds reverberated through the stones and echoed in harmony with vibrating metal. Both a great, clamorous clanking, and a scuttling all at once. How much longer the wait would go on, the approacher in the darkness would determine. Not by agency, but by the knowledge brought forth. If teeth and lips were still part of the being, it would have smiled.

* * *

The dawn shone crimson as blood over the Sea of Ghosts, mingling with the last traces of the aurora to make the way back a faint glowing haze. A sparsely crewed longship carried a single man and his belongings as cargo. Fair-skinned with hair sewn from the sun's light, he sat watching the ripples made in the wake of the vessel as it cut through the freezing sea, with waves like a bed of writhing serpents lapping at it's wooden hull. Under a helm of charcoal-grey & golden scales, two eyes shone through: one an orb of pale mist taken from the deepest frozen forests of Atmora, the other a plain hazel from the ice-buried soil and bark below. Corpse-pale scars stitched his body, marking him as a warrior along with his physique, and small mottled patches suffered from the stinging bite of flames. With his body accustomed to the slow rocking of the ship after a journey lasting several days, his mind became lost in thought gazing out at the icy spray of the unwelcoming waters.

An oily, yawning portal into the abyss, the truest vision of terror and helpless inevitability, filled his mind's eye. Writhing limbs had shot forth from that last Black Book, piercing Storn as he had offered the ancient secrets of the Skaal freely to his people's eternal enemy. The sight of Frea's stoney visage slowly crumbling over her dead father was seared into his mind, much like every phrase, every conscious declaration of will from the Thu'um, had been seared into his very soul, granting him understanding of the power behind all things.

The journey into the heart of Apocrypha to slay Miraak once and for all had succeeded. He had conquered the first of his kind, the "mere" man with the spirit of a dov. Devoured. . . Absorbed the dovah souls of the firstborn dovahkiin, the shatterer of Solstheim, and the dov he had slain in that same forgotten war.

And yet, it was Yjorrik's greatest failure. That demon, the twisted thing, had stolen the killing blow from him. Skewered the ancient Atmoran's artificial body, his form of solid creatia gathered within Oblivion, as it had so many other mortals on Nirn. The madman Septimus. Ingv-No. . . He would not dwell on the distant past. Nonetheless, that monster had invalidated his very quest. Made light of Storn of the Skaal's noble death.

When he had returned to Solstheim, to solid ground, away from the nightmarish labyrinths of the Gardener of Men. . . His mind reeled from the odd phrase that had suddenly found purchase, imbedded itself into his mind. . . Frea awaited him in the village of her people. She had asked if Miraak was truly dead. . . She had asked if her father, the shaman of the Skaal, truly had to die for it to be so. Yjorrik could not remember what exactly he had said. He was honest with her, she deserved that much. He hadn't sought to soften the blow, but to honor Storn's sacrifice.

Her parting words to him were simple, yet seemed possessed of a wisdom beyond her years, and they remained with him even now. "Herma-Mora forced you to serve him in order to defeat Miraak. Do not let him lure you further down that path. The All-Maker made you Dragonborn for a higher purpose. Do not forget that. Walk with the All-Maker, Skaal-friend." The purpose was self-evident, but he hoped beyond hope that Hermaeous did not hold some inescapable grasp on his very soul.

A second point of guilt came to mind, though it bore the weight of a feather compared to the anvil of Storn's death. Krosulhah, the dragon servant of Miraak, he had left to be studied by Neloth. The drake yet lived, broken of jaw and wing. The attack had come outside of dwarven ruins being swallowed by the sea, before he could master the bending of wills with voice alone. To defeat a dragon sent to be the arbiter of his destruction left no regret in his heart, but to leave one in the hands of a compassionless dark elf, a half-mad mage seeking to experiment on a living fossil, was nothing to be proud of. Perhaps there was a sense of kinship shared with his foe. Even so, he had carried out the act, for the advancement of knowledge arcane and metaphysical.

He had accomplished great deeds and feats beyond many of the most legendary of heroes, yet he had turned his back on the direst tests of his will as well. More imminent dangers had been his justification: the wanton destruction of the wrath of long-dead dragons, the mad vampire clan intent on a prophecy of inescapable death, and finally the cultists seeking to rebirth the first of his very own kind. Now nothing remained for him but the insurmountable undertakings awaiting him in his ravaged fatherland. The war splitting his people into, the loathsome barbarians terrorizing The Reach with righteous indignation that had turned to unbridled fury burning in their hearts, and the state of the land and its people as a whole. How could one man stop these happenings? How could he turn away the tide of the unrelenting sea, or stop an avalanche from atop the lofty Throat of the World? . . .

His mind, his spirit, righted itself. The how of it he needed to ponder, but the outcome was set in stone. He would stop the war, end the rebellion, and heal the land. His will was skyforged-steel. His power the essence of heroes and the strength gained from ceaseless triumphs over harrowing adversities.

Through a curtain of dense fog, he saw the dim morning lights of Windhelm, the city founded by Ysgramor himself. Fate was beckoning him back to it, and he could not refuse the call, no matter how badly he might wish to. His hand dipped below the surface of the rucksack lying next to him, and gripped a jagged chunk of ancient dragonbone. The blood of Old Atmora stirred as he embraced his destiny once more.

* * *

Outtakes: I nearly put "revengeance" in the more mysterious parts of the chapter, which is a ridiculous word made up by people that think merely revenge OR vengeance, simply aren't enough

AN: Thank you ScrimshawPen and Alexeij for the reviews, and thank you to all the other readers as well. As for the guest reviewer's question, the in-game books treat the Falmer like a legend, and Tullius himself shows little faith in old Nordic tales.


	3. Chapter 3: A Bitter Taste of Destiny

The _Northern Maiden_ floated calmly up the White River Bay, propelled by neither sail nor the oars of the crew, but only by the rowers of the small boats that pulled it to the docks with taught hempen ropes. The rising sun reflecting off of the subdued waves and seemingly everpresent snow outlined the dull grey of Windhelm's walls. The small crew of the ship busied themselves while Yjorrik sat at the prow and watched the city grow larger until it encompassed everything he could behold. As the ship was secured to a pier, the Cyro-Nord rose and watched the lively scene before him.

Bundles of fur, often layers of deerskin and rabbit pelt, trundled back and forth carrying crates and sacks between warehouses and flat-bottomed trade ships, though at this early hour they were going back empty handed more often than not; few vessels had come to port so early, small fishing boats notwithstanding. The lizard-men within the furs rushed franticly, maintaining a fragile balance between preserving their body heat borrowed from cook fires, and remaining conscious through exhaustion.

Even to one unfamiliar with the docks, it was obvious that they rushed back into their dwellings shortly after every few trips and others of their kind emerged, taking brief shifts to avoid freezing to death. All that for the pittance paid to them by the owners of the warehouses, the minimal wages that were inevitably spent on furs, fire wood, and fish to keep them alive. In turn, they were more likely to steal and thereby live up to the reputation the Nords and Dark Elves gave them. The somewhat rare cargo carried by the ship on which he sailed, his own treasures far surpassing even those Dark Elf goods, would surely tempt a scaled dockworker.

Yjorrik stepped off the gangway onto solid ground for the first time in nearly a week. An Argonian wrapped in bear skins, likely a foreman among his kind, approached the ship and the cyro-nord raised his hand to halt him. He looked over his shoulder and gave an order of his companions on the voyage that left no room for dissent, "No one touches my cargo. Not you, nor the dock lizards." He flipped a coin into the porter's scaly hands before walking on to the gates.

The lizards wouldn't be of much use to him even if he wasn't feeling restless; a single webbed toe crossing through the gate into the Grey Quarter could be cause for a murder or riot. The fragile peace between the three races relied on impassable barriers drawn in the snow by the mind. With few exceptions, Argonians, many employed by the Shatter-Shields, loaded and unloaded the ships, Dark Elves carried the contents on carts and by hand from the gate or the side entrances of warehouses, and Nords bought, sold, and traded the goods at their destinations.

Past the Nord guardsmen at the port's gatehouse, only one of whom seemed to recognize him, the streets forked and he took the northmost route, through the heart of the once-Snow Quarter. The other path skirted the periphery of the squalid district, providing a more comfortable path for the native-blooded. Passing through the place made apparent the conditions of the Dark Elves: the entire district was at a lower elevation than the rest of the city, leading to snow banks building up in the gutters, ditches, and streets themselves. Besides that, the poor quarter seemed much the same as any other part of the old capital. The buildings appeared just as recently built, the law against live animals within the city walls in full effect, the fish mongers roamed the streets in the morning before their catch could rot.

The merchants of the other districts of the city often refused to allow the elves within their inns and shops, the blacksmiths refrained from selling them anything sharper than a plow both to prevent a revolt and to conserve arms for the Stormcloaks, but farmers at stalls or with carts brought just inside the gates rarely denied them their produce, nor did the demands for taxes seem to come to their merchants from the steward more often than they did for any others by the looks of the elf traders he passed. Firewood was always plentiful around the capital, feeding chimneys all over the city, the portside section being no exception.

The Nord families that remained in the district had slowly converged into a tightknit community, an enclave within the enclave, living in a cluster of homes who's surrounding streets always remained well lit into the late hours of the night. Yjorrik passed the mouth of a street leading there and nodded to the world-weary man sitting outside his home, balding head held low in a mixture of relaxation and feigned unawareness, a large seax leaning against the wall inconspicuously yet easily within reach. The guards made their rounds, but this was likely a more unofficial watchman, volunteering his free time to protect his neighbors and their homes.

A lively intersection greeted Yjorrik a few streets further with wet cobblestones, melting frost crushed underfoot by porters, peddlers hawking their wares, wives seeking out their families' daily meals, and rickshaws serving the nominally affluent remnants of Great House nobility to be found in the city. He trudged on through a slush of mud kicked up by foot traffic, and nearly passed a narrow crevice between two walls when raised hairs on the back of his neck gave him pause.

A shadow began forming in the corner of his vision. He gripped the pommel of his sword and it faded back into the alley from which it came, gleaming red eyes shrinking to pinpricks. He pondered rushing after the figure and putting them down, whether cutpurse or cutthroat; instead he gave a nod, a small yet threatening grin, and carried on.

He passed by yet more Dark Elves in alleyways and on porch steps, some minding their own business, others avoiding his gaze in the most conspicuous way possible, failing to hide their envious intentions towards his coinpurse. A wizened elf brewer shouted to him as he passed by, "Nord! Yes, you there! You look like you enjoy a strong drink. I will personally guarantee, this mazte here will get you drunker than any mead ever could!" Yjorrik went on his way without sparing a glance.

He passed a dozen narrow streets and more until he came to the New Gnisis Cornerclub and considered stopping for a mug, but the taste of sujamma had worn on him while he was away, and he walked on towards home. The honeyed mead that awaited would suit him. Then again, he might need a clear head more than a drink for what he was pondering.

The steps leading up from the Grey Quarter lead him onto Valunstrad, "The Avenue of Valor." It was the oldest street in the city, passing by the Palace of the Kings and leading to his home. The avenue passed to the North of the main thoroughfare between districts, home to an old inn and a temple to Talos. He passed the gatehouse and barred courtyard of the Palace of the Kings, sparing a glance at the guards in their implacable helms. A few minutes' walk further down Valunstrad brought him to the most affluent district of the city, where the steps up to his house soon met his feet and seemed to welcome him back from a long trip. The light of a fire burned invitingly through the windows of his home.

He pushed the oaken doors open with a sigh of relief, only to be greeted with a an axe blade under his chin. The mutton-chopped face behind the handle of the blade, that of Calder, twisted from the image of a set jaw and determined gaze to embarrassment and a wide smile. He leaned his axe against the door and stepped aside graciously, clad in a plain wool tunic. "My apologies, my thane! It is great to see you! How was your journey?"

Yjorrik shrugged off his rucksack and clasped the fellow's upper arm. "You as well, Calder. I'll tell you of it after you help me bring in the treasures I've gained." Calder reached down to heft the discarded backpack from the floor, but Yjorrik stopped him with a sweep of his hand. "Leave it."

Half a dozen trips later, the Dragonborn was recounting his tale over a wheel of cheese and a horn of cider, while his red-haired "host" hung on every word of the adventure. Yjorrik noticed that his húskarl had kept the place clean, the fire well fed and largely sootless, the timber beams free of dust. The man was no servant, but keeping the house in order was hardly beneath his station. Yjorrik's tale had reached its conclusion, and afterward they had exchanged questions back and forth. Calder had little to say about the state of the war; the peace had held and the farmers had complied with the would-be-king's crop demands.

"You really fought the ghost of a frost giant?"

"I did. Claimed its service as well."

"Next you'll be telling me you found snow elves."

Yjorrik gave a small chuckle and sipped from his horn. "Well, there was my journey to The Vale. . . But there has been no news of dragons or vampires since I left?"

"No, my thane."

"It truly has been peaceful then in my absence, at long last."

The older warrior spared a glance at his liege's furrowed brow and inquired, "You do not look very relieved. What else has you worried?"

The returned traveler took a moment more staring up at the beams of the ceiling in concentration before slouching forward and looking at his own hands.

"There is something weighing on my mind. I have a choice to make. One that will have drastic consequences either way I decide." He balled his fists, then unclenched them and joined his open hands.

"What is it?"

Yjorrik said nothing, leaning forward with his palms together below his chair, eyes wandering over the floorboards from the rucksack by the door to the fire in the hearth and back. The flames crackled mildly in the silence between them until he finally looked up at Calder with a set jaw, his mismatched eyes commanding the húskarl's own to stare back. "Listen to me carefully. Where do your loyalties lie?" The gaze of neither wavered.

"To you, my thane."

"Above all else, you are loyal to me, and to no other?" Yjorrik stressed that last part, watching for the slightest hint of doubt.

Calder held his gaze, unflinching. "My word is my honor, my honor my life. I have sworn loyalty to you. I will serve no other so long as we draw breath."

The stare didn't abate for a long moment, and then Yjorrik leaned back in his chair, giving the man his space. He turned away to look into the fire burning steadily in the hearth again, then glanced back at his huskarl and cracked a small yet toothy grin. "You know, a simple yes would have sufficed." Some of the tension left the older man's frame and his smile returned. Ingvarsson slowly rose to his feet and stretched his arms overhead before making his way over to the pack laying on the lukewarm floorboards. He brought it up to eye level and tossed it underhanded to the seated man. "I'll be back shortly, or not at all. If Ulfric stops by or sends his men, give him this satchel. Otherwise, await my return or my word."

Confusion knitted the sworn warrior's brows, but he nodded his assent and managed a "Yes, my thane." Yjorrik opened the doors of his home for what might be the last time, then strode with purpose out into the chill morning air. Whether Calder would dare to take a look inside the bag for himself, he couldn't begin to say.

* * *

Yjorrik reached the now open gatehouse only for men in blued leather cuirasses with axes and swords to bar his path. He stared beneath their visored helms and met their implacable gazes, until after a few moments, one of them said "Wait, I know you." The guard stepped aside and offered an apology. The other stood fast until his compatriot stated: "He is the Thane Ingvarsson, the Dragonborn."

Yjorrik brushed past them as a third man, one of many in the courtyard, made to rush ahead through the doors and announce his presence. The Dovahkiin spoke as he strode forth, "No need. I shall not stay long as a guest. No preparations need be made." The guard hesitated, regular protocol clashing with his reverence for the man giving contrary instruction to it. Those standing closest to the doors pushed them aside as he reached them.

Beyond the threshold were a great many full tables of men attended by servant girls, with watchful sentries round the perimeter of the stone and tile hall. It was as he feared: Ulfric had assembled a war council. He intended to break the peace soon, just shy of a year since Yjorrik himself had brokered it. Couriers in light jerkins sat closest to the court's doors, yet the throneroom of the palace was so large that they were still a few empty tables away from the entrance. Their short seaxes, large knives really, hung prominently from their chests and lower backs, likely intended more for their own throats in case of capture than to be used on the enemy.

Bards and scribes filled the next long table, their animal hides, parchments, inkwells, quills, and instruments sprawled before them, ready to record the words and edicts of their high-king-to-be in word and song. Next were priests and priestesses of Talos, of whom he recognized Lortheim and Jora from the temple in Windhelm, as well as those devoted to Arkay, Akatosh, Stendarr, and Kynareth, advisors upon matters of the spirit in regards to war, all without any official ties to the established Cult of the Eight Divines in Cyrod.

Skalds, húskarls to the officers present, and honored veterans sat past the clerics, filling the seats of three tables in no discernible order. A group of five were sat together who seemed quite familiar, though he couldn't recall any of their names, until it dawned on him: they were the rescuers and the rescued Nords from the Thalmor's secret prison, Northwatch Keep. Yjorrik immediately recognized the war hero Ralof, the same man who greeted and helped him escape at Helgen, seated at the head of the farthest of the three tables.

In the seats of the penultimate table were siege engineers, some legion-trained, others dabblers in magick or once-simple architects, as well as the aides to the commanders, whether simple scribes or optios that once served the Imperial Legion, all of whom scanned over cluttered diagrams, topographics, and logistics scrawled on goatskin.

The Stormcloak commanders sat at the table nearest the throne, speaking amongst each other and with the jarl himself. Low conversations were being held at each of the occupied tables, but the sure voices of the high officers reached him as he approached through the vast hall of the palace, just as their lord finished speaking, though Yjorrik did not recognize any by voice alone beyond their nascent king.

"...with the giants."

"Felgeif won't be fond of that. I am surprised his coffers have not run bare putting bounties on their heads whenever they pass through."

"He's not pleased by much in any case. Armed properly, they would allow for a short siege of Solitude."

"I've heard rumors of the Dawnguard training trolls for battle. Think it's worth looking into?"

Ulfric spoke again: "It is worthy of inquiry, but between the giants and conscripted mages, their walls will crumble in mere days. We will have no need of dragging catapults through the bogs or lashing them together on the cliffs. Send half of the city's to the passes in The Rift where they will be useful. The rest shall be sent along to the front."

"How will we keep reinforcements from trickling in from The Reach?"

"The forests are our element, easy to defend and slip away into. Our men are far less prone to clanking away their positions. More significantly, Madanach is more murderous than ever. For every caravan that makes it through the crags, two more don't."

"I feel uneasy at the prospect of committing all my men to an assault on Falkreath. Balgruuf may just allow them to pass through to our front if we trample over his southern territories."

"Balgruuf's first instinct will be to meet us with cavalry. If our host makes that seem unwise, he'll attempt to hold out in his city. The farmsteads and villages are of far less importance to him. As for the giants, none will suspect or impede them until they are already far into the marshes. By then, it will be too late. If only I could see Tullius' face when he looks down from his tower at mammoths swimming across the River Hjaal."

"Who will lead the attack on the city? Galmar can't take all the glory, nor be in two places at once." Yjorrik had walked close enough to recognize Ulfric's head húskarl by then.

Galmar spoke up, a bear's coat hanging off his back from his head, a drinking horn in his hand. "If the giants cannot muster enough strength to tear down their walls, I'll be joining the fray before it's all over." The Dovahkiin saw the axe-wielder turn to a man with a head of dark, short, yet full hair, with a chin carved from rock. "Hungry for songs to be sung in your name, Gorald?"

The man in question took a pipe by its stem from the side of his mouth before he replied evenly. "As much as you, Stone-Fist."

Yjorrik saw the hungry grin Galmar cracked at that, the anticipation of the rush and glory of battle clear on his face.

The eponymous head of their rebellion spoke up again. "I will lead the attack. We've rooted enough imperials out of the wilderness to have little need for garrisons in our holds. The front and border crossings will remain manned, while internal defense will be left up to the jarls' own men."

As Yjorrik passed, stormcloaks had looked up at him with brief moments of confusion that soon gave way to recognition, awe, and reverence. He was the man who lived through Helgen alongside Ralof and their lord Ulfric, the one who sent scores if not hundreds of bandits to their deaths in roadside massacres, a vampire-hunter who struck fear into their unfeeling hearts, the great slayer of dragons, and more. Every man gave to him their respect; he pondered if they still would mere moments on before he reached the end of the last table and stood before the throne.

". . .Jarl, or should I say King, Ulfric."

Ulfric Stormcloak sat forward in his seat from the casual slouch he was in, before cheerfully throwing his arms out wide at the sight of the dragonslayer. "Yjorrik Ingvarsson?! It is good to see you return! Jorleif! A hero's welcome for this man! I shall join you shortly at the table-"

"-No need, nor time. I must discuss something with you."

The seated jarl took on a more serious expression before he spoke, arms resting atop his throne. "Hmm. I take it you do not come to me lightly then. I presume since you've returned you have finally slain the world-eater, or perhaps you are in need of allies to slay the great beast afterall." He flashed a confident smile at his presumption, then turned to his commanders. "Await me in the war room."

"They should hear what I have to say as well. You intend now to march on Solitude and forsake the peace?" Ulfric's eyes hardened at that as he looked Yjorrik head on.

"I do, and I must. The Legion has not kept up its end of the truce. They send skirmishers with or without insignia to probe and harass our lines. A village was burned near the front merely a fortnight ago! . . . Regardless of that, Skyrim must be free. Nords must not be crushed under the dead weight of an Imperial yoke. All of Skyrim, and all Nords."

Yjorrik took a steadying breath before he replied. "I have thought long on the perils we face and the hardships ahead, so do not take me lightly. You were a hero of the empire, and now continue to champion the spirit of the Nords through their unyielding fight for freedom. You are right to turn away from Cyrodiil when they offer only subjugation on behalf of their weakness. Skyrim could stand on its own feet once more and embrace a destiny greater than the empire's petty conquests. All this is true, but we are not yet prepared for such an undertaking."

"We have no fleet leaving the kingdom open to piracy, our warrior orders are nearly all in disarray, the forts of the land are crumbling ruins manned by brigands at best if at all, we two are the only tongues in Skyrim that do not sit on mountains contemplating sky whales or dwell in burial mounds awaiting Shor's return, our mages are few and their loyalties to Skyrim in doubt, villages of the countryside lie abandoned producing no crops, septims hold little value anymore and the karls suffer because of it, Nords revere the bastardized Eight Divines of the Aedra rather than our true gods, and the entirety of the Eastern Reach is a battleground.

Until these problems are addressed, the kingdom is in no condition for independence. What's more, the empire, though it lashes out at us like a mad dog, is the land of our brothers in Bruma, our cousins in Colovia, and all the other men who trace their lineage from The Return. If we abandon them, they won't simply lose territory in the next war. The Thalmor will treat them just as the Ayleids did, with thralldom, torture, and slaughter. If a peaceful solution to this war is not found, we will be condemning them to that fate. Call for the moot, and I will support you in ending this conflict. At the very least, the lines could hold, with rule of the East being yours."

Ulfric saw conviction in Yjorrik's untwinned eyes rather than insolence. "Wise words, Dragonborn, but I will not split the kingdom once more as fools did long ago. I seek to embrace the glories of our ancient forebears, not the mistakes of their middling descendants. Your fears for the folk of Cyrod are understandable, and may well be justified, but we shall not fight their battles for them when they spit in our faces and pillage our lands. When the Dominion marches North, the wise shall see that the Medes are not worth serving, and Skyrim shall expand South once again. The fair people of Bruma will gladly swear fealty to the throne of Windhelm, and all true Nords will return to our kingdom, with fields aplenty to stake their claim."

". . . I shall also tell you why I have not raised a fleet, and not just that it would be a waste of resources until all of Skyrim is rightfully ours. Tullius' mages destroyed the fleet in battle North of Solitude at the onset of this war, and in losing control of the storms they conjured, lost their own small force as well. Perhaps now you see why so many are mistrusting of magick, and why we have little need of it. The Emperor will not divert more ships to the general's efforts for fear of weaknesses in their coastal defenses against the elves, and our warriors are better served by their own small vessels for raids along our imperial-held shores. Ever since that battle, Tullius has been seizing merchant ships to bolster his supply lines and threaten our own, with Haafingar natives' taxes paying back the owners. Not only does this stir up dissent against the occupiers, it weakens trade as well, leading more captains to dock here in Windhelm."

"As for the East Empire Company, I am not blind to the reality of trade after the war. We will still be selling goods in Cyrodiil's markets after a time, and they in ours to a certain extent. That is why I allow them in our ports, albeit closely scrutinized." Ulfric signaled to the bards to play, a stirring melody of lutes and drums beginning on cue, and waved Yjorrik in closer to the throne. "Just between us, I also allow it because valuable treasures wind up in our markets after their ships depart, undoubtedly changing hands with Dark Elves. I tolerate them for a reason, you see, so long as they don't grow too bold. Though that doesn't mean they don't serve their time in my dungeons." The seated man looked up once more to the distant bards' table after a long moment, and silenced them with a wave of his hand.

His voice rose with clear intention as he next spoke: "As for our warrior orders, all who are worthy of the title are in the field or defending their homes, as sworn Stormcloaks. The armistice could not hold in any case; the empire feigns honor, holding to the treaty in the light of day but as I have said, sending skirmishers by night. Solitude will be ours in a few mere weeks. The mountain passes at our borders shall be made impenetrable. No imperial shall ever again set foot into Skyrim." His piece spoken, the jarl relaxed into his chair once more.

The Dragonborn was not abated. "What then of the next war? Will you aid the empire against the elves?"

Ulfric grew incredulous. "Return their insolence with comradery? Never. The Medes have chosen to scorn their allies in the name of a pathetic and temporary peace." He breathed a deep sigh at the warrior's continued questioning before replying with his own. "Have you slain Alduin?"

Yjorrik's gaze had gone low, a shadow cast over his face, before he raised his head again. "I have, long months past. I did not wish to see the peace that had been made to strengthen against the dragons and for my own labors crumble. Surely you can see that without the empire or any other allies, it is only a matter of time before the elves conquer us as well. Their slave races outnumber us, and only the Nibenese battlemages can match their mages in open battle."

Ulfric scoffed at this. "You do not trust in the strength of Nords. It is foolish of you to underestimate your own folk."

Yjorrik sighed, looking into Ulfric's eyes and imploring him to reconsider. His mind raced as he scrambled for some peaceful solution. "What about. . . Dragons? With Alduin defeated, they obey me. We can force the empire out with the threat alone."

Stormcloak raised his eyebrows. "I have no reason to doubt you, but that is quite the claim. . . " Yjorrik did not falter under Ulfric's incredulous gaze. "If you can truly control them, we can end this war in a fortnight and keep the empire out without losing a single man. What say you, Yjorrik? Lead your wyrms against our enemies and I will grant you lands, wealth, even jarldom as we expand. Songs will be sung of your praises for eras to come."

Yjorrik scowled. "I already have wealth, and songs for that matter. My only interest is ending the bloodshed in the kingdom. I will gladly stand behind you and command my drakes to raze the elves' lands when the time comes, but I will not burn the men who should be our allies against them when it can be avoided." A part of Yjorrik's mind, the part that he worked hard to ignore, urged him to command Ulfric, to enthrall the man's spirit. If he could do so to a dragon, a mere man would have no chance of resisting. To do so would mean sinking to the depths of draconic impulses, becoming a tyrant who controlled mortal souls against their will.

Ulfric, oblivious to the Dragonborn's inner turmoil, conceded nothing. "You will stand with us, or you will stand aside. Our cause cannot be diverted."

Yjorrik breathed deep as the inevitable conclusion became clear, before his unmatched eyes took on a steeled gaze. "Though your reasons are just, I cannot abide this war of yours. Since you will not keep the peace or forge one anew, I, Thane Yjorrik Ingvarsson, challenge you, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, to a duel for your throne and for leadership of the Stormcloaks."

Silence reigned for long moments, both men's gazes locked, until The Stone-Fist dispelled it. "You insolent foreigner! How dare you challenge the High King!"

The berserker began to step forward, rage etched onto his features, but Ulfric stopped him with a sweep of his arm.

"Relax, my old friend. The challenge has been issued. I have always fought my own battles."

The two warriors' eyes remained locked, as the claimant to the throne of kingship called out to his men. "Guards! . . . Move the tables aside. Then stand at attention at the doors. No one enters or leaves until the duel is completed." The Stormcloak commanders and the rest of the court required no orders. They converged outside the war room in a loose crowd, waiting to see what would become of the revered combatants. The servants retreated hastily to the kitchens, nosily peeking out from the threshold moments later. The scraping of long tables came to a halt and the hall was then clear of all but the two combatants, staring each other down.

Ulfric rose from his throne and stepped methodically down the short steps, his footfalls echoing in the resumed silence. His cuirass of leathers lined with thick furs only served to exaggerate the bulk of his muscle; ruling and strategizing had not taken away from his warrior's physique. The challenger still wore the same suit of scalemail, fashioned of dull bronze dragonscales, that he had donned to delve into Apocrypha. Stormcloak drew his sword and Ingvarsson did the same in kind, both hefting high their Nordic blades, the hilts level with their chins. The would-be-king's was shining skyforged steel, just shy of knightly arming-sword length. His challenger's shone a pale blue like layered permafrost in the light filtering in from the high glass windows, made of exceedingly rare stalhrim, magickally unmelting ice.

The Jarl did not waste even a breath after unsheathing his sword, loosing a shout that sent the Dragonborn off-balance for a mere moment before he recovered and replied with a single syllable. Ulfric's furs were ruffled by the force rushing past him, lending him the appearance of having dragon's spikes on his back.

The Bear of Markarth stepped back from the gale for an instant before he lunged forward with the breath of Kyne at his back, a swing intended to split Ingvarsson from shoulder to hip. Yjorrik backpedaled before countering with a thrust that was swatted away with the flat of The Stormcloak's blade. The rebel leader followed up with another diagonal swing, but the Dovahkiin did a quarter-turn back and away, swinging low as he retreated and splitting the leather shin-guard of Ulfric's boot.

The claimant to the throne allowed him no time to fully regain his balance, ramming him with shoulder, elbow, forearm, and hip. As his sworn warriors looked on, he made to bring his blade down upon Yjorrik's kneeling form. An unexpected headbutt broke his attack and nose, followed by a rising knee that took the wind from his sails, and ending with a pommel strike that picked up where the headbutt left off. Blood gushed down the would-be-king's face as he latched onto Ingvarsson's sword arm, then broke the grapple himself with a swift kick to the knee and a one-handed push. The Colovian-born Nord shouted, not with power, but in pain as he stumbled back, parrying a thrust that was too slow from his attacker's lack of breath.

The former greybeardling summoned Kyne's blessing into his lungs once more however, enough to shout his foe into a stunned stagger. He brought his blade down to cleave through the younger man, but his attack was turned aside to merely draw blood from a scale-mailed shoulder. Battle rage took hold of Yjorrik; he dropped his blade to grab the usurper by the furs, then launched Ulfric with both hands and a mighty shout that sent his foe sailing across the vast room. A resounding crack echoed through the court hall of the palace as The Stormcloak was embedded into the tiles and stone of the far wall.

Breathless moments passed for the onlookers before their claimant pulled himself free with both hands onto the floor. Sweat, blood, and pieces of tilework clung to him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, meditating to refocus his body and mind's energy, before standing tall and calling to the guards. "Bring me my axe." His challenger awaited him with sword in hand.

As soon as the axe was within his grasp, he moved to close the distance with a brisk march. Just before steel might be swung, a disarm shout tore the blade from Yjorrik's hand, and then Ulfric's axe was on its way to sever his head. The Dovahkiin charged forward, ducking the swing and tackling the Bear of Markarth to the ground. A second swing grazed the younger warrior's head just as his grip immobilized his foe's axe arm, and he battered the wielder with a clenched fist to the jaw.

Ulfric gave no sign of pain beyond gritted teeth as his knee rose to drive the air from the Dragonborn's chest, but he failed to notice the dragonbone dagger his adversary drew until it was being plunged into the flesh of his collar. He howled in pain, clutching the fingers holding the small blade, and threw himself headlong into a headbutt that drew blood from Yjorrik's nose as his own crimson ichor bubbled up around his neck, heat and cold alike rushing through his senses.

Ingvarsson twisted the dagger in retaliation, still clutching The Stormcloak's wrist with his other hand to keep the axe at bay. The jarl's desperate shout propelled the axe in his hand toward the ceiling, splitting hairs and the cartilage of Ysmir's ear as it flew; no time was wasted in following it with a quick fist to the throat, the force of which, combined with the lasting power of the shout, pushed his foe back onto the cold tiles of the floor.

Ulfric rose with a pained grimace, yet without delay, and caught his falling axe in one hand. Yjorrik got to his own feet just in time to catch the axe between his ribs, both arms braced desperately against The Stormcloak's own to keep the blade from sinking further. Blood poured down his side, his leg awash in it, as his gaze remained locked onto his potential slayer's own. He fought through the pain to bring his knee under Ulfric's wrists, his elbow joining it to create a momentary vice grip that cracked bones like kindling.

He tore the axe free as Ulfric recoiled in pain, embedding it into The Stormcloak's chest with enough force to drive the veteran warrior to his knees. The Dovahkiin yanked it free, the ensuing torrent of arterial blood coating both of their chests, then let it clatter to the floor. Ulfric looked up at his soon to be killer, shocked yet unwavering. Yjorrik turned his head, slowly looking around the stained tiles, then marched over to the stalhrim blade he had wielded from the start. As he hefted it, back turned, his defeated adversary attempted to rise, blood silently pouring in rivulets from his mouth. Ingvarsson huffed as he approached, bits of blood flaring out from his nose, his hand clutching his side and casting a healing spell to stem the bleeding from between his cracked dragonscales.

He stared into the eyes of a man's who's life he might just regret taking, a hero of his people and of the empire, and finally spoke his parting to him. "May we meet again in Sovngarde." There was a twitch in Yjorrik's swordhand and in his jaw as he hesitated for a mere moment, sword raised. Ulfric faced his death head-on as the blade of unmelting ice took his head from his shoulders, freezing the stub of his neck and exposed spinal cord in an instant. Yjorrik sheathed his blade with one hand, no small feat, moreso for a wounded man, and began casting a spell of unnatural freezing around the severed head of the jarl. His other hand remained at his side, mending his wound.

Galmar made to step forward, to draw his axe from its leathern loop, to avenge his fallen brother-in-arms and sworn liege, but his compatriots held him back, citing the officiality of the duel. By rights, The Dragonborn was now Jarl of Eastmarch. Yjorrik straightened, standing tall and turning the tome of his mind from what had to be done to what must come next. He walked calmly up to the short steps to the throne, all eyes in the room following him, and stopped at the threshold as he noticed his blood dripping onto the floor. He turned and spoke unabashedly, as befitting his newly gained authority, with frozen head still hanging in his hand. "Stormcloaks and people of Eastmarch, gather before me. Guards, remain at the doors and keep them sealed."

The guards visibly hesitated, shifting and looking to each other for direction, but did as they were bid, and the crowd slowly began to shuffle forth from the entryways to the map-laden war room, the kitchens, and other stone-cut doorways. They came to a stop in a loose throng before the throne, some still armed, some with murderous rage undeniably filling their eyes. Galmar was among them, held back by five huge and grizzled veterans, at least for the moment. Jorleif the Steward glanced back and forth at the pool of blood on the tiles behind the crowd and the slayer of his closest friend standing before the throne, his eyes wide and mouth slack with shock.

"Scribes, skalds, and bards, you may record what I say if you wish, all except for what I shall tell you to omit. Those words you may keep only in your personal notes and poems, to be read and heard by the world only after the White-Gold Concordat is no more, lest you be outlawed." Yjorrik's eyes scanned the faces in the crowd as he spoke and as he paused between words. "Steward Jorleif, when I have finished, have Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak's remains taken to his clan. . . Leave his axe where it lays and let no man touch it. . ."

He continued to scan the throng of mostly angry faces, meeting the gaze of each in turn, before he resumed. "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak was a good man, and a great warrior, but as a jarl who would be king, he has failed the people of Skyrim. Already the country is nearly ruined, and yet he would continue the war. There is bravery in fighting until the end, no matter the odds, but it is the common people of Skyrim who pay the price of his ill thought rebellion. The villages of the land are deserted and will remain so until peace can reign at last, and no family need be fearful of raids by skirmishers, deserters, and bandits." No one was moved by that; the murderous stares commingled with continued expressions of shock as men and a fair few women gazed in horror at Ulfric's severed, frozen head.

"You all know of me: I am Yjorrik Ingvarsson, Dragonborn, Thane of all the Nine Holds. I did not challenge Ulfric for love of the Empire, nor simply to gain power. I challenged Ulfric so that I could claim kingship in order to forge a peace and strengthen the kingdom once more for the inevitable wars to come against the elves. All of what I shall do as king, after the moot has acknowledged me, follows from this, and this is what I have set my mind to do for the good of Skyrim, and all the realms of man."

"I shall restore the ranks of the thanes and drengrs, the warrior-nobility that have been so depleted since the Great War, with born leaders who have proven their worth in battle. I will strengthen our warrior orders with the knowledge of our ancestors that is now nearly lost, chiefly the thu'um, the voice, the power of the shout. The forts at all of our borders and coasts shall be renovated and properly manned, though not through taxes, but through the granting of these keeps to worthy thanes." Though expressions largely remained the same, some caught a gleam in their eyes at that.

"All boys and girls, sons and daughters of Skyrim old enough to pull a bowstring will be taught by their parents, by Stormcloak warriors returned to their villages and cities, or by those who shall remain in the wilderness. One cannot face ethereal flame with axe and shield alone, and so the youth of the kingdom must all wield the bow, the spear, and the dart with sure skill. It is best to match spellcraft with spellcraft, but indeed I understand why you are all so wary. The Great War, The Night of Green Fire, The Collapse in Winterhold, The Red Year, The Oblivion Crisis, all these have shown only the disasters that may come of ill-use by mad mages. Our own college of magick's masters and apprentices cannot be counted on for loyalty to the kingdom, refusing to fight for the land, its graduates and failures often those who terrorize our countrysides in past years while in the pursuit of power through mad rituals. Yet, here I stand before you, a warrior and a mage, and nearly every one of our restless ancestors, awakened by the dragons, that I have faced has wielded spells against me. The greatest mages once came from Skyrim, and thus I shall found a new order of mages whose loyalties to the kingdom are absolute, whose honor is as undeniable as any true warrior's, who shall do battle with the elves' own when the time comes."

"The economy of the land, I shall make strong once more and capable of standing on its own feet without the empire and without their perfidious foreign traders. You all know of the Khajiit and the Dark Elves that steal, smuggle, and peddle with impunity thanks to the empire or to the necessity of the cities, and indeed, a great many of the bandits I have slain were opportunists of distant lands." Some in the crowd nodded or muttered their assent at that. "I shall not abide these trespasses: Helgen will be rebuilt and the few survivors of its destruction shall remain to rule it, under the Jarl of Falkreath of course, while all those foreign-blooded who have returned the hospitality of their Nord hosts with suspicion, hostility, and disrespect will make their way there upon its completion, or leave our lands entirely. Traders from foreign lands shall pass no further than Helgen, and those who are grateful for our generosity, safeguarded from the Thalmor, will be our eyes and ears against spies from the Dominion." A few muttered amongst themselves at that, whether in approval or not, Yjorrik could not tell.

"I shall have a great fleet constructed, and alongside it rebuild and restore the harbors and raise lighthouses anew to guide sailors safely through our seas. Any beggar willing to work, I shall personally have fed, clothed, and fared to one of these great projects, and when the labors are completed, they shall be paid generously that they may start anew. The call shall be sent out to all Nords to return to this fair land, that they may farm and prosper. Any clearing, hall, or village that remains abandoned will be given over to whichever family settles it. All those who have fought for the Stormcloaks shall receive a share of the remaining coin from that which has funded the campaigns against the Imperials. The rest shall be returned here to the palace, that the other works I have deigned may be provided for." He looked to the front of the crowd, where the chroniclers of various stripes had largely gathered to best hear him.

"Scriveners, rest your quills." He turned his head to the leaders, the chiefs of the Stormcloak warbands, standing together nearest the map room. "To you, the commanders of the Stormcloaks, I bid you this: return to your encampments with the words I have spoken. I would not ask a man to swear his allegiance to me just after I slew his former lord, and so I shall give you until after I have become king and returned to Windhelm. When that time has come, you shall send word of your pledge with your own mark, or vow to me in person, and you shall return the coin not dispensed to those you lead. Galmar, Jorleif, and Yrsarald, I shall tell you the same as the field commanders; pledge your fealty to me once I reign, or you may step down from your position if you cannot swear an oath to me, but be sure that every warrior, shield-maiden, and craftsman who have loyally served under you, whether they do now, or they did at the very beginning of the war, receives a pension."

"Send all but those most vital, and those who volunteer to train the youth, home to their lands and families, so that only the few that may remain unseen, unheard, as if illusory, shall remain. To all but true Nords, the Stormcloaks will be disbanded; in fact you shall remain hidden in the wilderness. There you will be the scourge of real bandits, acting as them to fill the role of the unseen terror of the Thalmor outside of the safety they find in the cities. In order for peace to return to our lands, I must allow the Thalmor and the Empire to roam freely, and so you shall never reveal yourselves to the Legion, even if they escort the elven dogs to harass the people. That is not all I have to say on that matter, but let me be clear that no man shall face persecution at their hands unpunished so long as I am king. There is the possibility that the Empire will not accept peace, though it is a slight one, and so for now the front shall be maintained and remain garrisoned, but upon the establishment of an end to this war, you who are the commanders of our front lines will do as the others will have done. You will train the youth, while amassing spears, darts, arrows, and bows. You will have respect for the land, for the forests, for the beasts, and for the waters, as all true Nords do. This is how we shall prepare an army so great and so unexpected, that the elves will cry out in terror when they see our banners on the horizon and swear never to challenge us again for another thousand years!" Many of the assembled warriors cheered at that, fists raised where once their arms were crossed or their hands clenched the handles of their weapons.

"Chroniclers all, this too may be recorded." He turned his gaze to the cluster of robed clerics, meeting their eyes as he spoke. "Jarl Ulfric sought to throw off the Imperial yoke and yet remain shackled by the Imperial Cult. Pale, elven imitations of the true gods reign in the minds of Nords, the only true divinities among the bastard Eight Divines being the one most dare not worship, and the watered-down goddesses. Though born in Colovia, my forbears were Nords to a man, my mother an honorable woman who held to The Old Ways, as much as were remembered of them. . . It is one thing to be raised with faith. It is another matter entirely, however, to see your gods before you in life."

He raised his voice higher in a boast that was yet a declaration of faith. "I have seen Sovngarde with my own eyes, bested Tsun and crossed the Whalebone Bridge with his blessing, visited the Feast Hall of Shor and supped with our greatest ancestors! All this I did while in the pursuit of Alduin, who forsook his role as World-Eater in his ambition to rule Mundus. So too did I slay the First Dragon, though he may yet return in another age long distant." He waited for the expressions of the assemblage to change, for his words to reach their minds, and saw a great many express awe and yet others disbelief. "All of this has shown me the truth: the Old Gods of our ancestors live on: Akatosh, the dragon lord of time, is indeed a god, separate to the elven Auriel. Mara, though a goddess, is not the mother of mankind: that distinction belongs to Kyne, to whom Mara is handmaiden. Stuhn and Tsun, Jhunal the Mage, Dibella, and Ysmir; these are who we owe our worship. Every hero of Sovngarde spoke of Shor, though I did not meet him; that honor is surely reserved for the greatest of those who have met their deaths."

His reverent tone gave way to a triumphant shout as he raised the fist that mended his wounds. "The Old Gods of the Nords shall rule once more in Skyrim!" Some cheered, others continued to show a lack of belief in what he spoke, and the clergy largely looked dismayed. . . "No man should be attacked simply for what he believes. Indeed, the Dark Elves worship demons, yet not all of them pursue malicious aims. Nonetheless, neither should a man be allowed to blaspheme our gods and preach of false, foreign divinities in our lands. I shall not have destroyed a single altar, idol, temple, or any other piece of history. The temples to the Eight Divines shall remain standing, their imperial symbols removed so that the true gods may be worshipped once more. The priests may take their idols and altars with them back to their homes, or if they cannot stomach the return of the true faith I shall personally provide for their transit to whatever land wishes to accept their bastardized faith." The huddle of robed figures among the crowd muttered among themselves animately at that.

"Scribes and poets, cease writing. I shall not exact the empire's fearful condemnations of any son or daughter of Skyrim who speaks of the New God, the Man made Divine, the Hero of Mankind, Ysmir, Talos Stormcrown, Tiber Septim, Hjalti Earlybeard. Instead I shall beat them at their own foolish game of placation. When I am finished, the couriers in this hall shall ride forth through the lands of the Old Holds bearing my words until all know that from this day forth, we shall refer to the New God in public as such, or by his old name Ysmir. Shrines, altars, idols, amulets, and temples to Talos must be taken deep into the wilderness where no one may spy them without showing due reverence. Just as our ancestors revered Ysmir with the symbol of the fox, so too shall we. Chroniclers, you may wet your quills once more."

He held up his hand, one finger raised to accentuate his next proclamation. "My first decree as king, after the moot has decided of course, shall be that anyone who slanders another as a Talos worshipper, whether with evidence or with none, whether they are or are not, shall be outlawed for life." A self-satisfied smile crossed his face at that, his pride in his own cleverness apparent.

"Couriers, the last message you shall carry is to my húskarls. Tell them to meet me in Whiterun. You need not specify when. Unlike what I have asked of the rest, I need certainty now, and so I shall ask you all to swear that you shall deliver my words and then return. Upon your return, I shall personally see to it that you are well rewarded." More than a score of men approached the base of the steps where he stood, hesitating or resolute, then kneeled in a rough line of two rows, though they did not kneel very low.

Three others remained standing and spoke up: "I shall not serve you."

"Nor I."

"You are a kingslayer, a Colovian, not a true Nord."

Yjorrik's face kept his even expression. "I will not begrudge you that, even your insult under these circumstances. Jorleif, see that these men are payed for their past services before they go on their way."

The Dovahsebrom watched the three as Jorleif obliged, fetching coin from his own pouch and stating a simple "Aye, I can do that." The couriers who refused were soon on their way, as were the rest who swore to deliver the messages he spoke. The Dragonborn strode forward with purpose, parting the crowd before him, but stopped just before he reached the corpse of The Stormcloak.

He stared at the body solemnly for a moment, before gathering a breath and turning back to the assemblage. Yjorrik glanced at Galmar, who was nearly frothing at the mouth in his barely contained rage. Ingvarsson gave one last proclamation: "This much must be said: between a Dragonborn and a Jarl-who-would-be-King, the outcome could only be decided by the gods."

* * *

Outtakes:

As Yjorrik walked briskly through the Grey Quarter, he passed by a Dark Elf standing outside the threshold of a doorway. The mer held aloft a jug of some variety of dunmeri spirits and leaned heavily against the stone frame. His grey skin was made to look even darker by the shadows cast from the light inside, a far cry to the slush of morning frost all about. The Nord barely spared him a glance until he heard a slurred exclamation of "Lay down yur' wep-ins, it's not too late for muh' mercy. Ooh, ooh. Come and look upon tha'-", by which point the Nord had his hands balled into fists holding up the elf's tunic.

With a low voice resembling a snarl, he challenged "What did you just say?" His voice took on an odd, throaty tone as he continued clutching the Dunmer by his shirt, nearly hoisting the collar over the hapless drunk's head like a cowl. "Are you threatening me?"

The elf's glossy eyes gained a degree of startled awareness and he replied, "No, sera! Just a song from the homeland, I swear by the Sixth House." . . .

* * *

As Yjorrik held high the severed head of Ulfric Stormcloak, the stunned silence of the onlookers gave way to a slow, methodical slapping of feet on stone that echoed in the hall. It grew distinct in its origin as it neared, coming from a small alcove to the left of the hall that lead to a winding staircase. An ancient, crotchety voice cried out, "WHAT IS ALL THIS RACKET AND SHOUTING ABOUT!? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BOTHERSOME IT IS FOR ME TO RUN VOLATILE EXPERIMENTS WHILE YOU GO ON MAKING ALL THIS NOISE?!"

The wizened old face of Wuunferth "the Unliving" appeared atop a silhouette of robes in the doorway, illuminated by a roaring flame held in his palm, prepared to bellow a cacophony of further complaints when he saw the figure of the Dragonborn standing tall with a bleeding axewound in his side and a frozen head hoisted above his shoulder. They stared awkwardly at each other for a long moment, before the wizard turned and mumbled, "Hmm, yes, well. . . Ah, you there!" and pointed to a nearby guard. He snapped his fingers as he demanded, "Bring me my tea, and two chickens, and a frog. One chicken cooked, the other alive. Oh, and don't cook the frog. And don't burn the chicken either!" He straightened his robes, shuffled back into the doorframe, and ascended the stairs still grumbling to himself. Yjorrik glanced around for a moment before stepping towards the empty throne. . . .

* * *

Author's Note:

Yjorrik is pronounced like "Yore/Your/You're-Ick"

Yrsarald is pronounced like "Years-Are/R-Ald"

If you had another pronounciation in mind, I'm curious to hear it.

As always, reviews/criticisms are appreciated.


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